The Only One
by becka
Summary: Slash. Snape receives a visit from an adult Harry Potter, who has an unexpected request. A tweaked tale of consensual abuse.
1. First Impression

Title: The Only One

Author: Becka  
Pairing: Snape/Harry

Warnings: AU? Brutality. Consensual abuse. Dark n' disturbed.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

Harry Potter is at his door, hair dripping in inky ringlets around his face. The scar on his forehead, the one that makes him famous for doing little else than living, stands out in stark contrast to his pale skin. His eyes are glowing, that strange shade of green, and it's impossible to tack an adjective to them. Not emerald, not forest, not lime or – Merlin forbid – kiwi.

They are the color of the Killing Curse. They are the unearthly green accompanied by Avada Kedavra.

Albus warned him, of course. With his damned benign smile and his thrice-damned twinkling eyes, he'd warned him that Potter would be stopping by. "Hear him out, Severus," the old wizard whispers, the ghost of a memory, or perhaps the memory of a ghost. "Young Harry has talked with me at length about this, and when he makes his request of you, consider. To refuse him outright would destroy him."

But then, Potter hasn't been himself lately. Even Severus knows this, and he makes a point of avoiding all mentions of the boy. Now that he's fulfilled his destiny and destroyed the Dark Lord, what further purpose is there for the Boy-Who-Lived?

Severus has always thought – in private, mind you, and never did he care to voice these musings – that it was unfair of them to lay the fate and burden of the world on Potter's shoulders. How could a boy, a child, hope to succeed where greater men had failed? They had used him as they would a tool. They had paraded him as an icon to the people, brushed him off as a scapegoat when blame had to be placed, and armed him with an arsenal of children's spells. What good were Stupefy and Expelliarmus against a Dark Lord?

And yet, armed with nothing but these spells and foolhardy, risk-taking stupidity – courage – Potter had destroyed Voldemort.

Had perhaps lost a part of himself when he did so.

Albus is concerned now, which led to a chat in the Headmaster's office, complete with a set of tea and a bowl of lemon drops, and the plea for Severus to "hear Potter out." What could the boy possibly want of his greasy old potion's master? This had been a key point in the argument. Whatever Potter was dealing with, whatever he wanted, surely there was someone else who would be more suited to the task – the ever-attentive Granger, or the sometimes-best friend Weasley.

To which Albus had smiled and responded, "There is no one more suited than you, my friend."

It's only been a month since school ended, since Potter and his little friends graduated. And, Severus admits only in the comforts of his own mind, since he felt the strange pang of something in his chest when he realized that Potter would no longer need saving from himself.

Potter is, as of yet, unemployed. The boy had undoubtedly gotten offers from the Ministry, from professional Quidditch teams, and from everyone who wanted to use his name for their greater good, but there hadn't been any announcements in the papers. They do not respect the privacy of any other aspect of the boy's life; why should his career be any different?

Not that Severus spends any time looking for such announcements.

And now, Potter stands on his doorstep, those fathomless green eyes staring into him with an intimacy that no one should be privy to. "May I come in, sir?"

Has the boy learned __tact__ since they last parted? Merlin forbid.

Severus steps back from the door, raises a brow, and in this gesture manages to convey his irritation at being so studied, as well as a cautious invitation to step inside.

Potter steps forward, footfall surprisingly silent and curiously out of place with the boisterous youth. This is perhaps the reason that Severus agreed to the meeting when Albus mentioned it. Potter has changed since the Dark Lord's demise, and even Severus knows that this change is not a good one. The boy no longer smiles, nor is his laughter given freely as it once was. He withdraws himself from his friends, shies away from human contact, and where he spends his days and nights is anyone's guess.

Whatever he's doing to himself is not healthy. Severus knows this, and tries to pretend that he does not. Why would a greasy potion's master care to be acquainted with life of his former obnoxious brat of a student?

Severus leads Potter to the study, the only room in his quarters that has more than one chair. It helps that the wards there are strongest, and that it is where he feels most comfortable. If he sits behind the desk, tapered fingers folded like so, and Potter sits across from him, he can retain the quintessential element of their former student/teacher relationship.

When they are seated, Severus begins. "Mr. Potter," he says, schooling his expression into a bored sneer. "Why is it that the minute I believed you gone from my life, you've chosen to grace me with your exalted presence once more?"

"I have a favor to ask you," Potter responds simply, his own face tilted marginally to the side. A small, lazy smile quirks the corner of his lips.

"Oh? And what in our previous dealings has ever given you the impression I would be willing to... assist you, in any way?"

Potter shrugs. "You've saved my life several times, and you hated every minute of it. You owe my father a life debt, and you hate having to repay him through me. You've made my life miserable on more than one occasion, and, call it a hunch, but I believe the feeling is mutual."

Severus' sneer deepens marginally. "You make a very pretty case against my assistance." And indeed, it's only Albus' soft whisper, _"Hear him out,"_ that keeps him from throwing the irritating boy out into the corridor.

"Ah," Potter says, leaning back a little. The strange – dangerous – smile still plays at his mouth. "But you see, Professor, that's what makes you the perfect choice for this particular favor."

Severus finds it odd that the youth still addresses him with that title of respect, but he does not correct him. "Your inane logic never ceases to astound. Do enlighten me, Potter."

"Did you know that Sirius once told me you knew more curses in your second year at Hogwarts than most of the seventh years?" Potter asks, switching topics completely.

"I don't see how this has any bearing on the conversation, but I ask that you refrain from speaking about that mutt in my presence, however dead he may be." The jibe is not even veiled, and Severus fully expects Potter to go tight-lipped, white-faced, and leave. After several heated insults, no doubt.

Instead, Potter shrugs. "If you like."

To cover his surprise, Severus growls, "Your presence irritates me, Potter. The sooner you ask your favor, the sooner I can be rid of you."

The boy leans forward, elbows touching the desk between them as he rests his chin on his folded hands. He studies Severus for a moment, and those eyes seem to pass silent judgment. Severus finds he doesn't want to know the verdict.

Potter's tongue darts out to wet his lips, the only sign of nervousness he's made since his abrupt appearance. In a voice Severus must strain to hear, he says, "I want you to hurt me, Professor."

A soft hiss of surprise escapes from Severus' mouth before he can curb it. Angrily, he shoves back from the desk, drawing himself to his full height, and glowers down at the boy. "Clearly you've wasted my time, Potter. Get out."

His mind is searching the conversation with Albus. Consider __hurting__ Potter? Why on earth would the Headmaster ever ask him to do such a thing? It wasn't as though he'd never thought about it before. In class, there had been several occasions where he'd had to consciously restrain himself from reaching over the desk and wrapping his hands around the infuriating child's neck.

It was clearly some sort of prank. If he – Merlin forbid – agreed, if he actually __injured__ Potter, the boy would run to the Aurors and have him locked up in Azkaban. For harming the Boy-Who-Lived, he might as well consign himself to a Dementor's Kiss.

"No, I don't think I will," Potter says, still smiling. "You don't believe me. You think I'm asking this to get you into trouble. Or maybe you believe I've got some sort of strange notion about getting my jollies by playing at being hurt." The boy takes in Severus' slack jaw and comments softly, "Sit down, Professor."

Severus sits.

Potter continues, "I am not asking you to hurt me because I have some sort of twisted fantasy about pain. I do not want to get you into trouble. I am willing to swear to both of these statements under Veritaserum."

Instead of turning the boy out on principle, Severus says in turn, "I was a Death Eater, Potter. I know more ways of causing pain than you could ever dream of. I don't know what you're playing at–"

The boy cuts in softly. "I'm not playing at anything, Professor. Perhaps you'd care to cast something on me, if you don't believe I understand what I'm asking."

The temptation is almost unbearable. Potter is sitting in front of him, smiling that infuriating smile, __asking__ to be cursed. Just this once, Severus finds himself justifying to his own mind. Just once so that the boy will lose whatever fool notion he has about being hurt.

Almost against his will – but not quite – Severus pulls out his wand and points it at the Boy-Who-Lived. "_Crucio_," he says.

Potter goes rigid and slips off the chair. He hits the floor with a soft thump.

Cruciatus. A curse Severus is intimately acquainted with, and yes, he knows how easy it is to crush something as fragile as a human mind with this, how easy it is to kill. He's done it before, under the gleeful tutelage of Lucius Malfoy, under the critical eye of the Dark Lord.

Severus watches with rapt fascination as Potter convulses on the ground, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, where he's most likely bitten his tongue. The room is strangely silent; Potter does not scream.

Severus __knows__ how much it hurts, and for a moment, he forgets that this was just supposed to frighten the boy off. He's lost in the picture Potter creates – the perfection of silent suffering.

A minute has passed.

Men are usually driven insane around three minutes, and Severus only intended this to go on for a few seconds at most. But he can't stop, because Potter's eyes are open and fixed on his own. The burning intensity there is frightening, as is the thought that Potter may be able to watch him coherently while under the influence of one of the most painful dark curses in existence.

Two minutes.

Potter's mouth curls into a grin, forced and more akin to a snarl than anything else. There's blood on his teeth, but Severus can only marvel that there are no tears in his eyes. His muscles are setting into the final stage, past the point of convulsion, locking and freezing in a bizarre parody of rigor mortis.

Potter does not scream.

Two minutes and thirty seconds.

Severus jerks his wand as if burned and the curse is broken.

The potion's master watches the boy as he lets out a soft gasp. He lays prone for a moment, then hauls himself to his hands and knees. Eyes downcast, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, falling to the floor with little pitter-patter noises. His hand, so pale and shaking, fingers reaching up to touch the corner of his mouth and wipe the blood away.

Severus wants to run from the room, but his legs are traitors. Then, Potter looks up – eyes wide, frighteningly wide, with a smile curling his lips.

And his eyes are flashing as his voice hisses out, "I'd expected you to be more creative. Again."

Severus obeys.

Not because Potter asked him to, but because the boy's voice reminds him of another time and place, of being seven years old and looking up at the terrifying visage of his father as he is tested on one of the many curses he was forced to learn. "Again," his father had said, harsh and unforgiving. "Again," and Severus had obeyed then as well, until his fingers cramped around his wand and he cast his curses perfectly.

The boy asked for creative.

"_Osfractum_," Severus says, carefully aiming his wand at Potter's leg, and it only takes a second for the largest bone there, the femur, to shatter into a thousand pieces. Though neither of them can see any difference in appearance, the slivers of bone explode outward, embedding in Potter's muscle from the inside.

Potter hisses again, jaw clenched, but he does not scream.

There is a tense moment where their eyes meet, and Severus remembers that Potter is not the elder Snape, nor is he his own father. He'd just cast the bone-shattering curse on a boy half his age.

Without a word, Potter hauls himself up off the ground and into the chair with his arms alone. The movement causes another small, pained noise to pass his lips.

"Better," Potter says, and Severus feels a sickening rush of pride at the word, completely out of place with what he has just done.

"Do you believe me sincere in what I've asked," Potter murmurs softly, "or would you like another demonstration?"

Severus sinks into his own chair, wondering who this boy is and what he has done with Harry Potter. His voice is a rasp, but he asks, "Why me?"

"Because you hate me, Professor. Because you knew more curses in your second year than most students did in their seventh. Because you are a Potion's Master, and no matter what you do to me, you have something in your stores that will enable me to walk out of this room in fairly decent health until the next time I return." This speech is delivered in a matter-of-fact tone that brooks no argument.

"Next time?" Severus asks faintly.

"If you agree to this," Potter says, and Severus notes that his hand is kneading his thigh, "I will come here three times a week, for two hours at a time. In that time, you can do whatever you want, so long as you hurt me to the best of your ability. At the end of each session, you will give me whatever potions necessary so that I can function somewhat normally."

"A Wizard's Contract?"

The boy nods slowly.

Severus shouldn't be thinking it, but he is. "And in return?"

"Having me at your tender mercy isn't enough incentive?" Potter says cheekily, smiling. The blood still stains his teeth and his hand trembles only slightly as he digs his fingers into the flesh of his leg. "In return, you have my oath that I will tell no one what happens inside these room. If you'd like something else, tell me. I'll accept whatever terms you choose, so long as I get what I want."

The potion's master lets out a shaky breath. "What is it you want, Potter?"

"I want you to hurt me, Professor," comes the reply. "I'd believed we covered this."

"Is that all?" Wizard's Contracts are serious business. If he agrees to "give Potter what he wants," he will be bound to that statement.

"I'll give you a simple directive at the beginning of each session, Professor. All I ask is that you fulfill it. If I ask you to make me bleed, I expect you will make me bleed. If I ask you to make me scream, I expect you will do your best to make me scream."

"And if you ask me to kill you?"

Potter grins. "I don't need your assistance if I choose to commit suicide. I will never ask you to kill me, because I can do that myself. But to hurt me... honestly, Professor, I thought you'd jump at the chance."

"Potter–"

"Do you agree to these terms?"

After a moment of consideration, Severus sticks out his hand and silently damns himself to hell. Potter extends his own, and as they shake, the oath binds them each to their word.

Potter will ask for pain.

And Severus will deliver.

o

A Guide to the Spells of "The Only One"

_Osfractum_ [Bone Shatter]

The bone-shattering curse. The caster must pick a bone or a set of bones; when the spell is cast, the bones will shatter, exploding outward and embedding themselves into the surrounding muscle. Beyond the excruciating pain, the bone marrow will poison the victim's muscles if left untreated.

o


	2. Second Date

Title: The Only One

Author: Becka  
Chapter 02: Second Date

o

There is a knock at Severus' door. He's been expecting it, but he still flinches marginally. The only comfort he has is that there is no one there to see it.

His body feels curiously slow as he stands and walks to the door. He opens it to find Potter standing there, the picture of innocence. One foot is shyly tucked behind the other and the boy's hands are behind his back. It's only the eyes that give him away, cool and unforgiving, like two chips of emerald.

This is their first session. Under Wizard's Contract, Potter is his to torture in whatever manner he deems fit, so long as the directive is met. And as to the directive –

Potter meets Severus' eyes, the smile tugging at his lips as he says softly, "Make me bleed, Professor."

– Yes. Well. Severus can do that.

He gestures for the boy to enter, shutting and warding the door soundly behind him. A mouthed spell passes his lips and a barrier of silence descends on them. In the event Potter does scream, no one will be able to hear him.

Severus leads the youth to his bedroom – the only place that Albus never visits. No matter how tempting it is to hurt the boy in the living room and let his blood stain the plush carpet, he knows that the Headmaster does not like to see evidence of the pain he condones.

Potter quirks a brow at the location but remains blessedly silent.

"Mr. Potter," Severus begins softly, his voice low and dangerous, "this is your last chance to break the Contract. I have agreed to this, and you will see it through. Are we clear?" As he speaks, he twirls his wand between his fingers. _Let the boy be frightened,_ he pleads silently. _Let him be frightened and end this before – _

"Crystal, Professor. It's part of the reason I picked you, after all." Potter's grin is infuriating.

Without giving pause, Severus raises his wand and whispers, "_Petrificus Totalus_." He must do this now without thinking of the ramifications; he has no choice.

Potter goes rigid and topples forward. There is a sharp crack as his forehead hits the ground. A lazy flick of his wrist and the boy's shirt disappears, and another props him face first against the wall.

"_Flagellius_," he hisses as he brings the wand down in a vicious arc. Sparks shoot from the tip of the wood as a thin, deep cut slices into Potter's skin. The curse isn't particular creative, the ghost of salted leather cutting into soft flesh, but then, Severus has two hours.

He raises his wand again, aligning it in the same place, and slashes down, and he resists the urge to look into Potter's eyes because he knows he will find them dry.

A quarter of an hour passes in almost perfect silence, interrupted only by the cloth of Severus' sleeve brushing down against his robe, the swish of his wand as it slices through air and flesh, the hitch in his throat as he scars pale skin. Each cut is aligned overtop the first, delving deeper into the firm layer of muscle.

It's during this time that Severus notes the scars already present on Potter's back. They are faint with age, fleshy and rigid, and his eyes trail them absently as he wonders what might have made them. They are too imperfect to have been left by magic.

"Potter," he says, his arm never ceasing its rise and fall, wrist contorting to perform the complex charm with practiced ease.

"Yes, Professor?" The boy's voice is steady, without the slightest waver of hesitation.

"The scars on your back," Severus says carefully. "What are they from?"

"Muggle belt," Potter replies. "The thinner bits are from the leather, and the thicker ones from the buckle. They aren't getting in your way, are they?"

"Of course not," Severus says. He pauses as he feels his last curse hit bone, and studies the curve of Potter's spine momentarily. Reaching into his robes, he pulls out a small vial and releases the body-bind.

Despite Severus' careful work, Potter doesn't even stagger. He turns and stares at his former Professor curiously.

Severus steps forward, just outside the edge of the blood that has pooled around Potter's feet. He extends the vial and the boy's fingers brush against his. The feeling runs up along his arms and squeezes at his heart.

As Potter downs the foul liquid, Severus comments, "I'll refrain from mentioning that you drank that far too trustingly as you would no doubt enjoy being poisoned."

"Hn." Potter rolls his shoulders, flexing the muscles on his back as the potion knits his skin back together. "Do you think that might be arranged for next week?"

"Anything in particular?"

"I'll leave it up to you." The boy grins, all cheek. "Something horribly complex to brew would be appreciated, as I've got a bit of a tolerance to most of the garden varieties."

Severus brow raises marginally. "Should I ask?"

Potter's brow mirrors his perfectly. "Do you really need to?"

"Point." Severus gestures to the wall. "I suggest you lean up against that, Mr. Potter."

Without giving the boy time to comply, Severus' wand is in his hand as he bites out, "_Raptus_." The force of the curse causes Potter to stagger, and a thin strip of skin falls to the floor with a soft, wet noise.

Potter glances at the slice on his arm, and pokes at the bared muscle with a quirk of his lips. Rather than being put out at the surprise attack, he laughs, "Very nice, Professor. Again?"

o

The papers pick up on the change in Potter almost instantly. Severus peruses one such article over a strong cup of tea, snorting at the ridiculousness of it all.

Boy-Who-Lived in Love? The paper spiels out several paragraphs on how Potter seemed to have slipped into a depression after the Dark Lord's demise, and yet in the last two weeks the boy made a miraculous turnabout. Several "close" sources say that Potter is happier these days. He goes out with his friends more often, all smiles and laughter. He's taken several interviews with various professional Quidditch teams.

The article takes several poorly contrived twists and reveals "inside information" – Potter is obviously in love. Speculation on "who the lucky lady is" and "how Harry met her" continue on for several more pages, citing three interviews with three witches, all of whom have stepped forward in the past week claiming that they are the alleged mystery woman.

Severus knows the truth.

Potter's only love is pain.

Speaking of which – the knock is soft, but Severus hears it like a drum, the pounding echo of his own heart. Potter has come to these rooms exactly six times – three days a week for exactly two weeks. In that time, Severus has made him bleed, has broken each bone in his body at least once, and has shattered them on more than one occasion.

What will Potter ask for this time?

"_Make me bleed, Professor."_

His wand stands at the ready to slice into the youth's agile flesh. "_Sectum_," "_Flagellius_," "_Raptus_," and in his mind, the skin parts like silk to reveal the soft layers of tissue, blood welling gently, like a gift.

"_Break me, Professor, so long as you can put me back together."_

His hand twitches. "_Osfractum_," "_Tersuscidi_," "_Tortum_," and he can hear Potter's fragile bones snapping beneath the silent pressure. An idea forms and slips away just as quickly, the idea of hiding bits of Potter around his living room and making the boy find himself before he reattaches them.

"_Make me cry, Professor."_

A difficult task to be sure, but not an impossible one. "_Demitigo Fringerius_" springs to mind – even a whisper of breath across the boy's skin is able to cause excruciating pain, though Severus suspects it's not the pain that causes Potter to cry, but the mocking tenderness with which he is touched.

"_No marks today, Professor. But I'm not worried; I have faith in you."_

"_Crucio_," "_Capressus_," "_Tumororis_," are on the tip of his tongue. There is something to be said about the picture Potter makes as he writhes on the ground, jaw locked, eyes wide, and only the softest hiss of breath as any inclination of the pain he is in.

Severus folds the paper and leaves it on the table. He downs the rest of his tea and strides to the door. He opens it and Potter steps inside hesitantly.

This is new; Potter never hesitates.

What will the boy ask of him?

"Hurt me, Professor," he says slowly, as if testing the waters of this request with his toe.

"How?" Severus asks cautiously.

"Without the wand."

And because he is bound by his oath, Severus sets his wand aside. He reaches forward to shut the door, and gives into a fantasy that lost its appeal a lifetime ago.

He wraps his tapered fingers around Harry's neck, and he squeezes.

o

**A Guide to the Spells of "The Only One"**

_Capressus_ [Head Pressure]

The victim feels a lancing pressure in the frontal lobe of their brain. This pressure grows steadily until the victim passes out, or the caster ends the curse. People under this curse often experience hallucinations.

_Demitigo Fringerius _[Soft Destruction]

A curse that inflames the nerve endings to the point where even a whisper of breath is capable of causing excruciating pain.

_Flagellius _[Whip]

As the caster brings his wand down, the victim experiences pain very similar to that of being whipped. Thin, deep marks are left in each stroke's wake.

_Osfractum_ [Bone Shatter]

The bone-shattering curse. The caster must pick a bone or a set of bones; when the spell is cast, the bones will shatter, exploding outward and embedding themselves into the surrounding muscle. Beyond the excruciating pain, the bone marrow will poison the victim's muscles if left untreated.

_Raptus_ [Rip, Tear]

A curse that slowly peels the flesh from the victim's body. The Muggle equivalent of "skinning alive."

_Sectum_ [Dissect]

The dissection curse. Originally intended to be used on cadavers to help perform autopsy, this curse maps the human body for dissection and proceeds to dissect from the chest down. It is favored in torture when combined with a secondary containing spell which minimizes blood loss and keeps organs and other important bits from falling outside the body.

_Tersuscidi_ [Clean Break]

The bone-breaking curse. With a touch of the wand, the caster is able to snap even the thickest bone with ease.

_Tumororis_ [Swelling]

Causes swelling to the brain. If the victim is held under this curse for too long, they perish.

_Tortum_ [Dislocate]

With a touch of the wand, the caster is able to dislocate shoulders, knees, and other joints. Unless the counter-spell is used immediately, dislocations must be snapped back into place manually.

o


	3. Three Cups of Tea

Title: The Only One

Author: Becka  
Chapter 03: Three Cups of Tea

o

"Sit down, my boy," Albus says, a grandfatherly smile stretching his lips.

Severus sits and – barely – resists the urge to protest the use of "boy" in context to himself. Albus Dumbledore is a great man, a great wizard, he says to himself. The Ministry will hunt you down and kill you if you maim him, no matter how frustrating he may be.

"Lemon drop?"

The potion's master smiles thinly and politely declines. Some small part of his brain begins piecing together an operation – a simple matter of creating the potion, and the slightly more complicated matter of lacing the old man's tea.

As if he can tell where Severus' mind is wandering, Albus' smile deepens. Then again, Severus muses, how many times have they sat in this office together, discussing the future of the wizarding world?

A slightly embittered part of his mind grumbles and translates – discussing Harry.

"Severus," Albus says quietly as he pours two cups of tea, "I believe Harry visited you two weeks ago. Did you give any consideration to what he had to say?"

"As the brat has been to my quarters exactly six times since then," Severus responds, irritated and annoyed at himself for the irritation, "I believe you have your answer."

Immediately the old wizard brightens. "Yes, well," he lowers his voice and leans forward marginally, "I didn't believe you'd refuse him."

_Didn't believe I'd refuse him? How highly you must think of me,_ Severus thinks bitterly_. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. And by accepting, I proved you right._

Severus remains silent.

Albus continues benignly, "Is there anything you'd like to discuss?"

Severus levels an impressive glare – at the wall directly behind Albus' head, because as much as he hates the old man sometimes, he loves him in the same breath. Beyond that, his glare has never had any effect on Albus, and it rubs.

"What exactly would you have me say?" Severus responds, adding the hint of a sneer to the glare.

And what __would__ Albus want him to say? Every moment recounted with a potion master's eye for detail? Would he want to know which curses were used, perhaps? Or the indescribable tolerance the boy has for pain?

A description, maybe? Harry on his hands and knees, blood slicking the floor beneath his palms. The soft, haggard breath, jaw locked, though every so often a hiss of pain will escape. His lips, swollen and red from where he's bitten them every time a scream gets too close to the surface. Wide, green eyes bright – but not with tears – and the curve of a smile that Severus finds marginally disturbing.

Perhaps a catalogue of the scars on Harry's body? There had certainly been enough before their agreement – both from Harry's relatives, and his many dealings with the Dark Lord. Now there are scars that only Severus is intimately acquainted with the faint, thin stripes that curve along the boy's chest and join to trace down his stomach from a dissection curse; the motley patches mirrored on each of his arms from the fusion curse; the tiny slits on his finger tips, the incision on his collarbone, the welt that cords around his spine.

Maybe Albus is interested in the potions Severus uses to piece the boy back together. The ones that deal with the lingering effects of Cruciatus, or the ointments he applies to help the scarring fade. The Pepper-Ups and the muscle relaxants he provides Harry in small, untraceable vials in case the need for them arises between visits.

Could it be the old man wants to know how __Severus__ feels about the entire situation? How each session he slips a little further into madness and the abyss of Harry's eyes? How he's afraid that one day he won't be able to stop at the two-hour mark?

How he finds himself in the bathroom after each visit, washing his bloodstained hands as he stares into his own dark eyes in the mirror? How he's taken to fasting before each visit simply so that when he finds himself on his knees with his head in the toilet, all that comes up is bile?

Albus sips his tea. "Have there been any interesting developments?"

Severus stares at him for a moment.

_No matter what I do to him, he's always conscious at the end of every session, which personally I find fascinating._

_I've put him under Cruciatus for just under five minutes and he's still as reasonably sane as he was when he first proposed this to me._

_After every session, when I clean him up, I resist the urge to kiss him better. Interesting enough for you, Headmaster?_

"Not really," Severus replies.

"And how do you feel about all of this?"

"I dread every waking hour before he comes to see me," the potion's master says icily. "I find my mind wandering while I work. I have __nightmares__ about him, Albus."

At this, the older man's brows rise sharply.

Severus presses on, a dead hope welling in his chest. Perhaps he can convince Albus to order him to break the Contract. "Every time he knocks on my door, I answer him because I have no choice. And once he's there, I find myself wanting him to stay. I do not __want__ this Albus, but I cannot refuse him!"

Albus nods once, understanding. There is a heavy moment of silence before the older man says softly, "I know you care for the boy."

Severus stands abruptly, sweeping his arm across the desktop. His unused cup falls to the floor and shatters and he explodes, "It is precisely __because__ I care for him that I do not wish to __do__ this, Albus. How can you sit there and simply–"

"Severus."

Albus' voice is mild. Severus hears the reproach and snaps his mouth shut with an audible click.

"After Voldemort's defeat, something inside of Harry shattered. Part of it stems from the act of killing another human being, and part of it lies in the __way__ that he did so. But most of it comes from the fact that Harry feels he has outlived his usefulness."

Severus slowly sinks back into his chair as Albus' gentle words wash over him.

"I realize that you know very little of Harry's upbringing. It was not, as you might have envisioned, that of a celebrity. He lived with a family of Muggles who despise magic, who view Harry as a freak and a burden. For eleven years, they taught him that he was worthless. They treated him little better than a house elf."

"Why–"

"Why didn't I stop them? Why did I insist he go back to them every summer between school years?"

Mutely, Severus nods.

Albus sighs, closing his eyes. He looks older, suddenly. "Because they are his relatives. Because when he was with them, he was twice as safe as he would have been anywhere else. Blood magic is a powerful thing, Severus; you know this."

Shaking his head, Albus pulls out his wand and floats the shards of the teacup onto the desk. With another wave, it's as if the cup was never broken.

In his heart, Severus wishes it was that easy.

"The only thing stronger than Harry's lack of self-worth is the guilt he feels. Guilt over taking another life. Guilt over regretting it. Guilt over not being able to do so sooner. Because we told him that it was his obligation to destroy Voldemort, because he saw visions of the witches and wizards who were tortured and killed, because of his Godfather's death."

"It's not his fault," Severus mutters. He's not pleased that Albus has wrung this admission from him, but he cannot remain silent.

"Of course it's not," the older wizard replies. "It was not – should not – have been his responsibility. But we gave him the burden to carry, and he bore it because he was never taught not to. This is why I encouraged Harry to come to you when he asked. You give him two things, my boy. You give him purpose, but more importantly, you offer him redemption."

Severus' shoulders slump in defeat.

"He offers me damnation," the potion's master says softly.

"Most would label what you do as something tainted, something twisted and unhealthy," Albus responds. "But it is what Harry needs. And I believe, somewhere, it is what you need as well."

Raggedly, Severus whispers, "I __hurt__ him, Albus."

There is a gentle smile on Albus' lips as he offers Severus a lemon drop. "Ah, my boy, don't you know? We always hurt the ones we love."

o


	4. Four Little Words

Title: The Only One

Author: Becka  
Chapter 04: Four Little Words

o

"Shall we play a little game, Professor?"

Harry is leaning against the stone wall, arms raised, wrists trapped above him in a pair of heavy, conjured manacles. His scarred back is exposed to Severus, who examines the damage of the evening.

"What are you blathering about, Potter?" Severus asks, voice betraying none of the trepidation that has risen in his gut. Two weeks of this torturous routine have passed since his last conversation with Albus, and Severus is well aware of the hidden layers of Harry Potter. Any game the boy might suggest is suspect on principle.

_Boy. Ha._ It is with a great sense of perversion that he continues to refer to Harry as such in his head. And yet, he cannot pinpoint the exact moment of the other transition that has taken place – the moment he began to think of the youth as Harry, rather than Potter, the distinction that he is not his father's son only obvious in light of their mutual activities.

"It's a Muggle game. Quite simple, really. Psychologists call it 'word association.'" Though Severus cannot see them, by the tone of voice, he is sure that Harry's eyes are bright with anticipation. "I'll say something, and you say the first word that comes to mind."

_Innocent enough_, the potion's master thinks. He applies a specially made salve to the lacerations, his acquiescence found in silence.

"Where to start? Hm."

The boy pauses, considering. After a moment, he adds, "And please, don't think about it too deeply, sir. Naming the first word that comes to mind is the whole point of this exercise."

"On with it, Potter." Severus finds his hands lingering on Harry's bare skin as he works the salve in, and his concentration slips as he traces a finger along one of the cuts. It should not be arousing, he thinks blankly, to touch an open wound, and certainly not one which he is responsible for putting there in the first place. There is nothing attractive about blood – not even the blood of the world's savior – and it should not be arousing to trace a finger along the sticky raw edges of flesh and muscle.

"Whisper."

"Gooseflesh."

Severus is surprised at the response. Harry's voice had startled him out of his musings, and he'd replied before he'd taken a moment to collect his thoughts. He thinks about the word, his finger still idly tracing the boy's wounds and he realizes –

– _a whisper of breath, his own breath, across Harry's skin, young and solid with toned muscle, watching the fine hairs static up, little puckered dots of –_

"Mother."

"Cage."

The shift in direction is so sudden that Severus can only reply honestly. _How strange_, he thinks. He remembers his mother fondly, though he can't quite envision the woman's face, obscured by jet-black hair, but he remembers the pearls. He remembers fingering the small, luminous beads and her voice, like the sun on his face, whispering to him, "They glow because my father gave them to me. He stole the stars from the sky because he couldn't give me the moon."

Lilacs. Fresh and soft, and he remembers her lips ghosting over his forehead.

_Cage,_ he wonders. _Why would I_ –

– _she was a dove, a precious and beautiful creature, fragile and helpless, and she did not love the man she'd married, but she stayed with him because he'd clipped her wings –_

"Master."

"Dual."

_Wait_, he thinks helplessly. Harry is going too fast. He needs a moment to think, to analyze. Dual, meaning two. Two masters.

Perhaps he doesn't need a moment to collect this particular thought. Though the Dark Lord is dead, he cannot help but think of him as master, though it sickens him. He has always been a small and unimportant pawn, trapped between two icons of greatness.

– _limbs still twitching from the Dark Lord's displeasure, Cruciatus, he stumbles through the halls, the Headmaster's office a goal he is unsure if he can reach, the old man will sit him down and offer him tea and ask him to relive the horror once again, and this must be the right thing, he must be doing the right thing, why else would it hurts so much –_

"Harry."

"Stop."

Harry turns his head to look at his former professor, the smile on his lips similar to that of a child on Christmas day.

Jaw clenched, choking off the emotion, Severus repeats, "Stop."

"If you'd like, sir," comes the youth's quiet reply as he turns away and they sit for a moment in silence as the potion's master brings himself back under control.

Harry's back is nearly healed, but Severus scoops a generous portion of salve onto his first and middle fingers. He is careful, so very careful to cause no pain as he applies the medicine to shallow wounds, fingers dragging lightly against skin.

Finally he asks, "Is this 'game' a two-way street, Potter?"

Harry's shoulders twitch imperceptibly beneath Severus' hands. Not with pain, he realizes, but with barely concealed amusement. "I wouldn't dream of denying you, sir."

A moment's contemplation leads Severus to thinking how strange it is that the boy seems to know him, almost better than he knows himself. In turn, he finds himself __wanting__ to repay the boy in kind, his words a subtle twist, a phantom knife, right about where Harry's heart should be.

Severus closes his eyes and dispels this image, if for no other reason than he is coming to believe that the boy doesn't have one.

At last he says, "Potter."

Harry laughs, "Liar."

Severus mulls that over for a moment, tucking it away for later analysis.

He frowns, "Blood."

He is sure the boy is grinning as he replies, "Secret."

Frustrated, he says, "Mirror."

"Monster," comes the lightning quick reply.

In a flash of inspiration, Severus grips Harry's shoulder, spinning him around. All it takes is a whispered spell and the manacles that bind the boy's hands fall away. Severus leans forward, towering over the small, bruised body. He whispers his own name.

Harry recoils with a soft hiss, the mirth fleeing his eyes. He tilts his head to the side as if contemplating whether or not to answer and finally, after a stretch of unbearable silence, replies, "Pain."

Before the potion's master can do anything, Harry glances at the clock, a curious slump to his shoulders. "I don't think I want to play anymore, Professor. Time's up." He is dressed so quickly Severus is unsure if magic is involved and then Harry is out the bedroom door. A moment later there is another click as the door to Severus' chambers is opened and closed as well.

Severus stares at the door long after Harry has fled. He plays the words over in his head_, pain severus pain severus pain severus_, and he glances over at one of the newspapers that litter his table; the headline catches his eyes: Boy-Who-Lived in Love?

Insight strikes him with a clenched fist. He doubles over, and the words he thought just over two weeks ago come back to haunt him: Potter's only love is pain.

Harry loves pain.

_pain severus pain severus_

Harry loves Serverus.

_potter liar potter liar_

Severus hates Potter.

_monster mirror monster mirror_

Severus loves Harry.

_pain liar severus potter_

Severus stumbles to the bathroom, where he is promptly sick.

o


End file.
